Vive la Guillotine!
by The Labris
Summary: There is more than one way to keep your husband from cheating on you. Warning: Not for the squeamish.


**VIVE LA GUILLOTINE!**

~by The Labris~

* * *

It had been only five years since the wedding, and Harry wasn't quite sure why he'd thought it would work out. Perhaps it was because she was so…well…Hermione. What could you say about her? She was certainly smart, most definitely powerful, and had grown into an astonishingly beautiful witch. She hadn't even told Harry about the relationship until Harry had grown suspicious. And even then, Hermione never disclosed anything of the personal sort. And Harry got over it, because the war was over by then, and the prick hadn't hurt Hermione in any way Harry could see. Besides, Hermione was a full-grown witch; she could make her own choices.

Ron was a different story though. He was furious when Hermione had told them, said it would never work out and they were just fooling themselves. Well, as it turned out, Ron had been right. Not that they would listen though. Ron had almost said, "To hell with it," and not even gone to the wedding, but Harry managed to convince his friend that this was Hermione's most important day, maybe more important that N.E.W.T.s. Ron was uncomfortable at the wedding, but he went for Hermione's sake.

They were in love. Harry spat on the word, not because he was some bitter soul, but because he'd never really had it. Sure he'd had a thing for Cho Chang, and then some girls in his seventh year had made him feel all right for a while, but no one really caught his fancy. …Well, not to get too personal, but one girl did catch his fancy, and she was married.

He sighed to himself. Ginny Weasley. After eight years of ignoring her he'd seen her at a Ministry function with her fiancé. They looked like a deliriously happy couple, especially since she was gorgeous and he was rich and famous. In Ron's fourth year he had been jealous of Viktor Krum, and now it was Harry's turn. At their wedding Viktor had recreated, in staggering English, their how they met. He was playing for the Bulgarian team still, and as an expose game in Hamburg he had scrimmaged Ginny's team, the Hollyhead Harpies. It had been love at first Bludger. He'd been struck with the ball and Ginny had been the first witch he'd seen.

It made Harry want to puke, but he kept it down. Yeah, he was sore, but he had his career, and that was all he needed. Ginny was married, and he'd had his chance a long time ago. He snorted as he walked up the large stone steps of the mansion. Ron wasn't too hot about coming here again; he hadn't been since the wedding. Harry had visited once or twice, but never been comfortable. Something about Hermione and her beau's relationship set his teeth on edge.

As an auror, five years seasoned on the beat, Harry, along with Ron, had been given their badges and sent out as detectives. Soon they would be battle aurors, but Harry tried not to think about that. There weren't any battles to be fought anymore, and, besides, detective work was exciting. Not fulfilling, but exciting.

"Should we knock?" Ron asked from his left.

Harry flipped the collar of his jacket up and crossed his arms. He didn't know what this was all about, but the complaint was registered by a house elf, and they were normally reliable about this sort of thing. Most domestic problems were reported by house elves, and while Harry didn't normally deal with domestic disputes, this was Hermione. If that git had hurt her he was going to rip his throat out.

"Go ahead," Harry suggested coolly. "We'll probably get a house elf anyway."

Ron nodded and gave the door a good rap with his fist. There was a great deal of clicking involved with opening the door, and when it swung open a gray-green house elf in a rotting smock stood shivering. Harry was suddenly very suspicious. He knew how Hermione had house elf servitude bent, and he couldn't imagine that she would ever allow a house elf to go so ill cared for. He frowned, looking down on the poor elf in question.

"Detectives Potter and Weasley," he said gruffly, poking a look inside the house delicately. It was spotless, like some sort of grand museum. The dark mahogany was complimented by several green accents, and he reminded himself about whom Hermione had married. Of course, it would be green. There wasn't much silver to be seen, but, then, Hermione did have certain limits on that sort of thing. "We're here about a domestic complaint. Can we come in?"

"Oooooh!" the house elf squealed, wringing its hands worriedly. "Comes in, comes in, masters! I haves a worry for my master. He's a frightful screamin'." And it continued it horrid English, ushering them into the room and offering to take their coats.

"No," Ron said to the creature. "We'll just see Hermione if that's all right."

At this the house elf cringed and shrunk back. "The…the mistress is in the room at the end of the halls, masters. She's been at it again."

Harry and Ron walked briskly to the end of the hall. Harry wondered what the elf meant by 'at it again.' The hallway was dark, and nothing made noise, save the occasional creak on the hardwood floors. The door at the end of the hall was the only open one, and the only one with a light on. Harry and Ron approached it carefully, drawing their wands just in case.

Harry received the shock of his life when he looked in. It was his 'Mione, sitting in a chair by the fire with a mostly-drunk bottle of Odgen's in her hand. Her hair, now grown long and very curly, was unbrushed and wild, wandering over her eyes and neck. It looked as though she'd lost weight, or maybe he just didn't know how skinny she really was. He'd never seen her in this state of undress. She was wearing cream-colored, lingerie silk, the hem pulled up past her thighs, which were sheathed in thin stockings. Her legs were spread haphazardly, and Harry knew for certain she was drunk. Despite himself, he blushed.

"Damn it, 'Mione," Ron cried out, covering his eyes and turning. "Pull yourself together, won't you?"

Hermione just raised an eyebrow and drank down the rest of her bottle, tossing it in the fire negligently. She gave a shallow laugh and stood, wobbling. "Oh, well if it isn't my lovely friends! Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. How's the work going, then?" She hiccupped and offered them a seat.

Harry declined, punching Ron in the shoulder to turn him around. "Ah, Hermione, we got a call from…from your house. A domestic dispute of some sort. Did he hurt you? Are you alright?"

She raised an eyebrow at them, and Harry noticed her mascara was running. She must have been crying. Then she snorted and her lips turned into a very uncharacteristic sneer. "Hurt me? Like he could, the bastard." She Summoned another bottle from a cabinet and promptly downed the meager contents.

"Well, where is he then?" Ron said, looking a bit red. "We'll question him and get this all straightened out."

Hermione's bloodshot eyes looked at them for a long while. Then, bringing herself up tall, she spoke to the house elf. Very sarcastically, with a flourish of her hand, "Liddy, take them to the master of the house."

Then she threw herself on the chair once more and Summoned another Odgen's, full this time. Harry looked at her for a moment, and then felt a tugging at his cloak. The elf, Liddy, was trying to lead them out the door. Ron followed as well, and the creature took them up a few flights of stairs. On the third landing, Harry began to hear muffled moans of agony. He and Ron shared a look, and Liddy showed them into the room.

Harry was surprised for the second time that morning. Curled into the corner, bloody sheets wrapped around his middle, was Draco Malfoy, former-Head Boy of Hogwarts, holding his crotch. All the blood had drained from his face, and he looked at them without seeming to see them. The phrase he kept repeating stayed in Harry's mind for a long time after that day, and he wasn't sure he could ever quite forget it, nor even bring himself to ever quite believe it.

"She cut it off… She cut if off… She cut it off… She cut it off… She cut it off…"

It was enough for Harry to have pity for the young Malfoy. He was sure that there must be something that could be done, but whatever it was would surely be embarrassing. And Malfoy just kept repeating over and over again. "She cut if off…"

"Unholy ghost of Merlin," Ron whispered next to him.

All Harry could do was nod in agreement. He turned when he heard a voice at the door, and saw Hermione leaning against the doorframe, one hand on her hip and the other holding the whisky. She looked at the scene with a detached expression, her eyes lightly skimming the room. Finally, her eyes landed on Harry.

"He always told me he was too much for just one woman to handle. I suppose he was right, because he couldn't quite keep his dick in his pants. I don't think he'll have that sort of problem anymore. Do you?"

Harry's stomach almost turned out as he watched Hermione lazily waltz over to Malfoy, turn some of the alcohol onto his wound, and walk out as if nothing had happened. Malfoy screamed like a baby before she even stood in front of him, and screamed louder as she walked away.

What the hell had happened to his friend?

Ron coughed, bringing Harry out of his daze. "Do you want to do the paperwork, or should I?"

Harry couldn't even answer.

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**A/N:** The moral of the story, kids, is that Draco/Hermione doesn't work. It's nasty, it's weird, and something always ends up getting beheaded. _Vive la guillotine!_


End file.
